Obsession
by InsertSmartPenNameHere
Summary: Because there's nothing quite like forever. Drabble-ish AloisCiel, DARK THEMES.


DISCLAIMER: IF I OWNED KUROSHITSUJI, THERE WOULD BE A LOT MORE CANON!SHOUTACON. *SHOT*

A/N: Why, yes I DO know that there are other things I should be working on right now, but you get this, instead. This will (hopefully) be the beginning of a long line of Kuroshitsuji fics I'll churn out, since I'm absolutely in love with this fandom.

**Obsession**

Hands. Gliding over marble skin like a spider's tread, tipping and tapping and dancing and prancing across a porcelain cheek; the Danse Macabre hardly compared to such a delicious routine as this. A pinch here, a prod there. Their tinkering foxtrot is surely enough to drive any man mad, he thinks. The very idea is enough to make him want to jump for joy, though of course he won't; everything was ultimately, finally just right, and he would do nothing to tamper with the status quo.

Somewhere down the distant, echoing halls (in a house of no air, no time, and _no escape_), an old grandfather chimes the hour. A pause in the dance, and the spider smiles.

"Mine." The word seems to reverberate not from the boy's mouth but through the very walls of the room. Golden whispers in the dark.

The spider's legs_fingers_fold over ones too pale and fragile to even be real, while the other hand tangles itself in moonstone hair with its usual shine dulled and dusted. Comparing, with not a trace of his usual derision, to his own cream-blonde strands, almost white under the barely existent lighting of the room. Alois Trancy, whatever else he may be, is not a cynic; he knows beauty, however veiled, when he sees it.

And Ciel Phantomhive is still _beautiful_.

Muscles shift and bones creak as the blonde noble moves to place a seat upon the other's lap. One arm is thrown, almost conversationally, around the watchdog's neck, while the other wanders off. There's a stiffness in the neck as the arm squeezes, and the owner of the latter adopts a Cheshire grin on his lips.

"Neh, Ciel?"

The question is met with silence, not that the boy expects anything else. He buries his face in the young Phantomhive's collar, breathing in his slightly musky scent. A scent, he's sure, many have lusted after but only he has obtained. When he speaks next it is in a whisper, "You like it here with me, don't you?"

A pause. A wooden clicking noise. A breath hitched in the throat. Then a nod. Ciel's sapphire eyes are closed as his head bobs up and down mechanically, as though unaware of what was happening right in front of him. But that's only child's play, as he knows all too well of the subject. Skin meets chilled skin as he presses their foreheads together, the trademark smirk still playing on his mouth. Slowly he edges closer, building the tension until-

"Dinner is ready, Master." Says his demonic contractor from the doorway.

In that moment he momentarily feels the blind, freezing rage building in his head again, like it's done (seemingly) so many ages ago, when his conquest was not yet complete. And he's almost certain that had the interruption not been the very man who has earned him his prize, there would have been no hesitation to order him dead. After all, the Earl of Trancy is not known for showing mercy.

Ice-blue pupils narrow, and Alois lets out a hiss. "Leave us." He can feel the sliver of light coming in from the hall burning on his back, illuminating the small wooden contraption he holds between his fingers.

"Master-"

"Get out, Claude; you'll let those damned bugs in. I'll be down a minute."

"Yes, Your Highness."

He waits with rare patience for the click of the shutting door behind him before reaching out into the darkness and placing the controller on a nearby table. Strings pull and tug, and the near-invisible loop around Ciel's neck strains to raise his head a few more inches. The spider's hands soon join in the support.

The dark-haired boy's lips taste of putrid death, but Alois pays it no mind as his tongue slithers over purpling flesh. The muted clicks of his teeth against his are reduced to nothing but white noise residing in the nethermost regions of his brain, and the fetid breath of Ciel is bent and twisted by the other's imagination into something akin to flowers. Roses, to be exact, the ivory-white ones the young Phantomhive adored so much.

The head falls limp when he releases it, dangling lifelessly as a heap of sagging skin and drying bones. And as he stands up to leave he can't help but look back, with an expression of fondness etched into his features, at the body that was once the Earl of Phantomhive.

"You'll _always_ be mine, Ciel."


End file.
